A Tale of Totems and Trading Cards
by xEyesOnFire
Summary: Captain Steve Rogers, freshly un-frozen, is asked by a strange man named Thor to perform inception on his brother Loki. Steve assembles a team of dream-sharers to help him complete the job. Everything goes as planned until Bucky shows up inside the dreams as a shade.
1. Prologue

Based off of several Tumblr memes.

Pairings that will be found later on in the story: Steve/Tony, Clint/Natasha, and possibly others.

Rated M for future language, violence and sexuality. Don't ask me when, because I'm making this up as I go.

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**PROLOGUE - 1942**

Steve was crying. Steve Rogers did not cry.

xxxxxx

Something was wrong. When the dream-sharing team woke from their recent job on the train that currently travelled through the Alps, Steve was the first to notice that they were not alone. He ripped the IV line from his arm, rupturing his connection with the PASIV. Footsteps clambered across the cars and towards them. Cobb and Bucky leapt to their feet and Steve followed suit.

They had had one Hydra base left to destroy, without a clue as to where exactly it was. Therefore, they had been forced to track down Arnim Zola to steal its location from his mind. It had been Colonel Philips's intent to allow Cobb and his own team to infiltrate the doctor's thoughts, but Steve had insisted on accompanying him. And Steve did not go anywhere without Bucky.

Dominic Cobb, the extractor, sedated Zola a second time, just to be sure. He already had enough Somnacin in his system to keep him out for a few more minutes, but they were faced with an unplanned threat. They were meant to be alone on this train, except for Jones, who had been charged with ambushing the front car.

The three men lifted their pistols and pulled back the safety triggers in unison. Steve slid his shield onto his arm. They moved slowly and silently through the next car, which was loaded with strange metal cases, and into the one that came after.

"Steve!" Bucky shouted before the captain had even noticed that they had been separated. The train door had slid shut as soon as Cobb and Steve had stepped into the next car, the third man too slow. Bucky was trapped.

Steve's first instinct was to claw at the sliding door, but his attempts were in vain. He would not have the time to try anything else, for behind him, Cobb was faced with a Hydra agent with two enormous firearms. The extractor's pistol fired several times to no effect. "Cap, right now might be a good time to toss that shield!"

Acknowledging that Bucky was faced with a similar enemy, Steve turned and threw his star-spangled shield at their adversary, deflecting the thing's fire. Cobb took a step back while Steve retrieved his shield, striking the Hydra agent across the head. It moved no more and he leapt to his feet. Only one person was on his mind. _Where's Bucky? Is Bucky okay?_

"Wait," said Cobb. Steve was about to protest, but as he was only here as an assistant, he had no place in disobeying orders. Cobb crouched by the agent's body and lifted its arm, to which was attached a strange-looking weapon. Steve retreated to the corner and Cobb fired. A blue flash erupted from the muzzle and blasted the door open. "Alright, go."

Steve raced to the next door that separated him from Bucky. The agent had him cornered and unarmed. Steve happened to have an extra pistol. He exchanged glances with Cobb, then leaned on the button and the door to the adjourning car slid open. Steve tossed the pistol to Bucky and he and Cobb shot down the agent. It was too easy.

"I had him on the ropes," said Bucky as he checked the body for movement.

"Sure you did." A memory of a New York alley went to his mind. Steve was not Captain America, but the little guy from Brooklyn who didn't know how to say no to a fight. It was back when he was the one who needed to be protected. Oddly enough, he missed those days.

"Look out!" Cobb whirled around and fired two shots at the reanimated body of the adversary from the other car. His clip was empty and he was forced to pause to reload it. The Hydra agent walked on and this time aimed his superior firearms at Steve. _Kill Captain America_ had to be his orders. _Get rid of the Western hero_.

Steve lifted his shield as a reflex, stepping in front of Bucky. _Protect him_. Those were his own orders, given to him by himself. Bucky was no match for Hydra while Captain America was. Steve could not afford to lose his closest friend.

The blast did no harm to the shield, but the walls of the train were not as lucky. The vibranium flew from Steve's grip and with the angle at which the blast had been deflected, the wall to his right tore as easily as paper. He crashed into the opposite wall, his shoulder absorbing most of the impact. Gritting his teeth at the discomfort as it quickly passed, he clambered to his feet in time to see Bucky lift his shield against the agent, protecting Steve as he had when they were young. "Bucky, don't!" His companion was not strong enough to stand his ground. Bucky was launched backwards and out of the gaping hole in the train. Steve's shield clattered to his feet and with a heart pounding like it never had, he threw the vibranium at the Hydra agent. Cobb took the opportunity to shoot it down while Steve leaned out of the opening.

Bucky was barely holding on, but he was still there. He could still be saved. Steve glanced down and his stomach lurched. _Oh God, they were so high up._ If either of them fell, they would die an unpleasant snowy death. This was not a dream. They would not wake up.

Steve climbed onto the collapsed wall, getting the best footing and grip that he could without letting go of the train. "Grab my hand!"

Bucky inched towards him and Steve's heart stopped beating. The metal bar that his friend had held onto moved under the adjusted weight and Steve thrust his arm further out in a panic.

"Bucky!" His friend's fingers slipped through his own and the younger soldier fell, his screams echoing off of the icy mountains. Frozen in shock, Steve could only stare, even when the body was long out of sight.

_He's gone._

_ Bucky's gone._

_ This is not a dream._

"Cap...Captain? Rogers!"

Steve was snapped out of his trance and looked around. Cobb leaned out of the train, his hand extended. Steve did not want to go back. He did not want to live without Bucky. Though thinking rationally, he was needed. It would be selfish to throw himself off of the mountain, wouldn't it? And he was not selfish. It took the entirety of his thoughts to convince himself of that. He accepted Cobb's help, returning into the train with a part missing from his soul.

"Come on, we've got to report back to Philips. You know how he is."

Steve nodded curtly and licked his dry lips. "Is...is this really..."

Cobb held out his totem, the strange little top. "I checked. We're awake. I'm sorry."

He felt numb. He would never see Bucky again. Never laugh with him, never go to the cinema with him, never share a drink with him at a bar while pointing out the prettiest girls...never again.

With trembling fingers, Steve retrieved his shield from where it had fallen. It felt heavier than ever, as if he was no longer Captain America, no longer worthy to wield it. He stared down at it in shame. It was this object's fault that Bucky had been thrown out of the train, its fault that there was a hole in the train in the first place. And if the shield was to blame, so was Steve.

Something glinted out of the corner of his eye, flashing in the evening sun reflected by the snow. Next to the fallen body of a Hydra agent lay a pocket watch with a broken chain. It was Bucky's, given to him in his early childhood by his father prior to the latter's death. Steve knew that he cherished it—that he had cherished it—to the point where it had never left his sight. It had become Bucky's totem, ticking clockwise in real life and counter-clockwise in a dream. The second hand currently moved from two to three to four. _This is not a dream._

A hot and salty tear rolled down his cheek, soaking into the fibers of his uniform. _Bucky._


	2. 2012

I really wanted to get this chapter up this week, so the end might seem a little rushed. I don't know how often I'll be updating this, though. I have finals for the next two weeks, I'll be away from the computer for pieces of July, I'm doing NaNoWriMo in August and then it's back to school. We'll see, I guess!

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST. A LOT OF IT. Don't worry, there will be some Clintasha in the next chapter.

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CHAPTER 1 - 2012

The walls were a boring beige and the furniture, white as snow. It was not unlike Bucky's old home in Brooklyn, but the young soldier's apartment had been much messier. Steve gave a shuddering sigh at the memory. He had not slept all night—he had played back all of his cherished moments from the early twentieth century, only to give himself a broken heart and to come to the realisation that he was six years short of being one hundred years old. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and did not move for several moments.

Bucky's pocket watch lay on his bedside table and Steve leaned over to pick it up, curling the chain around his fingers while he stared at the golden frame of the miniature clock, at the faded black numbers inked into the ivory dial, at the crooked hands that ticked slowly clockwise. 7:00 AM. Reality. When he had been found by S.H.I.E.L.D., Bucky's totem had been broken, the glass cracked and the time stopped. Upon Steve's demand that it be fixed, the agents were quick to comply. He would have expected, and preferred, to have a significantly smaller influence in the future. He had encountered just the opposite, especially with an agent named Coulson. The poor man had wasted and continued to waste his life obsessing over Captain America, a legend so much greater than Steve Rogers.

Knuckles tapped at his door. "Cap? You awake?"

Steve shoved the pocket watch into his drawer, taking care to tuck in the chain. He took a pair of trousers from the foot of his bed and shuffled to the door while pulling them on. Clearing his throat, he forced a smile onto his mouth and opened the door. "Agent Barton."

Clint was significantly more experienced than him in all possible meanings of the phrase, with an affinity for odd weapons. Although at the moment, instead of his usual bow and quiver of arrows, he carried a rectangular black bag strapped to his shoulder. When S.H.I.E.L.D. director Nick Fury had offered Steve the official position as extractor for future missions, he had appointed Clint as his pointman. "Cap, we've got a job. You in?"

Steve paused halfway through a nod. There was no doubting that he ached to get back into action after seventy years of being an ice cube, but that meant that Bucky would not be on the team. An invisible hand pressed down on his chest with a frozen grip and Steve could hardly breathe.

"Cap?"

"Yeah?"

"You in?"

He nodded, because realistically, wouldn't Bucky be dead by now, anyway? _Oh, shut up, Rogers._ While true, he knew it was a lie to think that way and he would never be able to convince himself to believe in something that was not the truth. Bucky had died young, had lost most of his life. All of those people he could have met, all of those lives that he could have changed, all of those opportunities, gone. Steve swallowed hard. Bucky had wanted to marry one day, as he had confessed to his short and skinny friend, on top of the Cyclone at Coney Island. After the war, after he found a proper job, Bucky's one wish was to live the American dream and have a family of his own to raise, unlike his father before him. Despite Steve's bad memories of the Cyclone, he would have attended the wedding without hesitation. Of course, now his worries were gone. It would never happen. He cleared his throat, landing back in 2012. "We'll need a team," he said to Clint.

"I'll talk to Fury." The archer's eyebrows were drawn together and his mouth turned down in a wrinkly frown. Over the past few days Steve had come to discover that this was merely his resting face and he could not help but wonder if the agent was well or perpetually unhappy.

Clint stood awkwardly in the doorway and Steve only then realised that he was forgetting something, something that his mother had repeatedly tried to drill into his mind when he was a little boy: manners. He could hear her voice inside his head, telling him to sit up straight and say please and thank you. A real smile, then "Do you want to come inside?"

Agent Barton entered the apartment when Steve stepped aside, walking silently to the round table in the kitchen and sitting down. Clint lifted his bag onto the wooden surface and Steve sat opposite him. "Last night, Coulson got a call from Thor Odinson of Allfather Industries—"

"I'm sorry, of what?"

"Allfather Industries." Clint pulled a shiny black rectangle from his slightly bigger rectangular bag. Steve recognised it as a computer, similar to the funny machines that Director Fury had shown him. "Sounds pretentious, I know. It is. The CEO thinks he's some kind of god. His son Thor isn't much different."

"What does this 'Thor' character want us to do?"

Clint pulled a strange face, his eyes dark and his mouth tilted upwards as if he remembered a bittersweet memory. "Have you ever heard of inception?"

Steve shook his head.

"It's an advanced kind of dream-sharing experience. It's harder than it sounds: you have to plant an idea in the mark's head. It has to be like a moment of pure inspiration for them."

"That's impossible to create," said Steve, recalling what Cobb had told him: the mind can always trace an idea back to its origin. Already he imagined all of the different ways that inception could go wrong if they had a difficult mark. "To make the origin of an idea untraceable, one would have to go several—"

"Several layers deep, exactly. It's very unstable. As far as I know, very few people have ever succeeded. Luckily I know one of them. I've been trying to get in contact with her. She'll resurface soon enough."

And this was expected to be his first job since his return. He and Clint had no team, no plan, and very little experience together. What could go wrong? "What does Mister Odinson need inception for?"

Clint cleared his throat and turned the computer towards Steve. "That's Thor on the left. The shady-looking guy is called Loki." A picture, so much more realistic than those that Steve had once known, was displayed on the computer. Thor, the man on the left, wore his straw-coloured hair long and was generally scruffy-looking. Loki, on the other hand, had a very different appearance. As he and Thor entered a limousine in the picture, Loki's hand was lifted to comb through his sleek black hair. His choice of clothing was drastically more sophisticated than Thor's. He wore a thin patterned scarf over a long dark suit and matching pants. "Loki is legally Thor's brother, making them both eligible to take over the company," said Clint. "Recently, Loki found out that he was adopted. He took it badly."

Steve arched an eyebrow. "How badly?"

"He nearly destroyed a town in New Mexico and he tried to kill his brother. Among other things. He's been AWOL for the past few months, but Odinson says that he's got a pretty good idea where Loki will be. Until we meet the guy, it's the best we can do." Clint pulled back the computer, snapped it shut and placed it back inside the bag. His elbows resting on the table, he leaned forwards and blinked once then twice. "First things first, we need an architect. I'll ask Fury about that right away."

The captain nodded. The architect would have to be the very best if inception was to be performed. He was sure that Director Fury would have a good one on hand, just as Colonel Philips had had Howard Stark. "What about a forger?"

"Oh, I know a great thief. Don't worry about that." Steve rose from his chair when Clint did and accompanied him to the door. "By the way, what do you think of the future? Is it living up to your expectations?"

"To be honest, I expected more flying cars." He smiled at the memory of Howard's fair, with all of the inventions that had made him feel completely out of his time. He wouldn't in his wildest dreams have believed his present condition. "But, umm...it's fine. It's fine."

xxxxxx

Steve had energy and frustration to burn. A run around the city was an option, but he was still afraid of leaving his apartment for too long. It reminded him all too bluntly that he was in 2012. Instead, he travelled to the S.H.I.E.L.D. gymnasium to brutally destroy what had become his only friends: the heavy bags that he had found there. He would punch until the chain broke and then he would replace it. One day he would pay for the damage.

His fists began to ache. The sweat that clung his shirt to his back, chest and underarms had become distracting. His muscles felt like they were on fire; he had been at the bags for hours. It was fine. He was fine.

_God, what if he hadn't taken Erskine's serum in the first place?_ He would never have become Captain America, he would never have been introduced to dream-sharing and Bucky would never have been on that train in the Alps. But he would have died anyway in Schmidt's lab if Steve had not saved him. No matter how history could have unfurled, Bucky would not have survived past 1942 and Schmidt would have destroyed the world if Captain America didn't exist, so Steve's selfish fantasy was pointless.

His eyes flicked over to his bag, where he had not properly put the pocket watch away. Its face peeked out, but the lighting was too bright to tell whether the hands turned clockwise or otherwise. That was what could have changed Bucky's fate: his father's watch. If his father had not perished in war, he may have been less enthusiastic about enrolling. He had dreamed from as far back as Steve remembered of becoming a soldier like his father. Bucky would have surely joined the army like all of the other young men at the time, but he might have been placed elsewhere, far from the front lines of the 107th infantry.

He cursed under his breath, a rarity, and gave the hardest underhand punch that he ever had. The heavy bag folded in two under his fist and the chain snapped and the bag was thrown across the room. A cloud of dust rose in its wake as it rolled to a stop against the opposite wall. Steve's heart pounded against his ribcage, threatening to burst through, and his breaths came in heavy gulps of air. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and turned to fetch a new bag.

"Doin' all right, Cap?" Director Nick Fury strolled with ease into the gymnasium, his hands clasped behind the bulk of his black coat. "You seem...distressed."

"I'm fine."

"Okay." Fury removed his hands from behind his back and held out a manila folder that he had been carrying. "I've been informed that you're in need of an architect. I know a guy."

Steve unwrapped the tape around his knuckles and walked to stuff it into his bag. "Who is he?" He took the folder that Fury offered but preferred to hear the director's opinion first.

"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist...His name is Tony Stark, better known as—"

"I'm sorry, did you say Stark? As in Stark Industries?" Steve hated to interrupt, but any link with his past life was more than appreciated. It made him feel safer and less of an alien. He had recently discovered that man had even made it onto the moon while he was in the ice. The things that the world had been up to...

"The one and only son of Howard A. Stark. I understand that you knew him."

"I did." Steve let the folder fall open in his hands and was met with a picture, a ghost of a familiar face. Tony Stark was without a doubt Howard's son, bearing a great resemblance to his father. They both had the same ingenious spark in their eyes and judging by the list of skills on the file underneath the picture, Tony had also inherited his father's brilliance. Steve did not notice the photo of a strange-looking red hunk of metal at first. Instead, his attention was drawn to the lines reserved for the son's family. He was an only child and his parents were dead. Howard was dead. He had died over twenty years ago, according to the file. At least he had lived a full life.

"So you want to take him?" Fury gestured towards the folder.

"Yes, definitely." Steve looked at the picture of the humanoid figure with the strange circle of light at the center. "What's that?"

"It's the Iron Man's suit of steel. Stark's become a bit more appreciated around here ever since he revealed himself."

"He made the suit himself?"

"While held hostage by terrorists."

"When can I meet him?" Steve was smiling, because he was now sure that he had found his architect, because the team was finally coming together. If Clint came through with the forger, they could meet their employer and begin planning straight away.

Fury took a small slip of paper from his pocket and gave it to Steve. "I wouldn't be so smiley about meeting him if I were you. He ain't the most cooperative of folks. And dress down."

xxxxxx

Steve wasn't quite sure what Director Fury meant by dressing down, so the next morning he fished around in his nearly-empty closet for a flannel shirt, a leather jacket and blue jeans. In the photos from the folder, Stark wore custom-made suits or his metal disguise, but Steve took Fury's order nonetheless. He was early, but in his excitement, waiting was not an option. He paused when he came to the round table where Clint had perched himself a day ago. The agent had not yet returned from Russia, the last known location of the forger that he had mentioned. Steve took the paper that Fury had given him, which hosted a time and an address: _Tomorrow, 11:30 AM. 3 East 53rd Street. _The address seemed so familiar, so right-on-the-tip-of-his-tongue obvious that he should recognise the place, but nothing came to mind. He would have to wait until he got there to see.

He put his wallet and his apartment key in his pocket and left, locking the door behind him.

After hurrying down the stairs until he reached the ground floor of the building, Steve made it onto the busy Brooklyn street in time to spot a lit taxi coming around the corner. Looking to his right, then to his left to make sure that no one else needed a ride before him, he hailed the cab. Director Fury had warned him about the value of money in the twenty-first century and Steve understood that it would be much different from what he had once known. He had not expected a simple taxi ride to amount to the price that he would have had to pay for a brand-new radio.

When he handed the cabbie several crisp bills after his ride, he could not help but feel cheated. His distress did not last long. Steve stepped out of the taxi and was met with a hauntingly unfamiliar sight that was like a punch to the gut. Of course the address sounded familiar—everyone knew it back in the day. It was the place where the girls he knew dreamed of going with their lovers and where the boys hoped to find attractive older women. Steve had never gone himself, but he had heard of the place. Oh yes, he had heard of it.

He glanced at the address on his paper, then to the buildings on each side of the pocket park. This was the right place. Where the Stork Club had once been, there was now a small cement park between two buildings. He did not know when the club had been torn down, nor how old the park was, but it did not look brand new, that was certain. Not only did the rush of the waterfall and the chatter of the people sitting in the white chairs remind him just how horribly out of place he was in this century, but he could only think of Peggy, of how they had arranged a date at this very place seventy years ago and how he had never met her there. He took a long, shaky breath. _Calm down. You're working right now, you can't afford to get sentimental. Move on, Rogers. Everyone's gone—it's time to get used to the present. The past is behind...far behind._

Steve walked past a couple eating odd-looking chunks of meat on top of very thin bread. Behind them was an empty table, well hidden behind a tree. The white noise of the waterfall nearby would mask the sound of his and Stark's conversation from any nosy neighbours.

He lifted the pocket watch from inside his shirt. _11:30, clockwise_. He slipped the watch back under his shirt and watched the entrance to the park for any new arrivals. A girl no older than twenty came in a minute later, with no company and very little clothes. He could not help but stare. Her shirt was very tight-fitting and had no sleeves, while her shorts were barely visible. Steve had noticed similar habits with many women in the streets. Even now, this teenager sat in his sight, smiling in his direction. He had seen that look before, on women who had flirted with Bucky and after that, on Peggy when she spoke to Steve. This was not good.

Unsure if the girl was looking at him or not, Steve took a glance behind him. There was no one else there. He gave her a quick nod and a smile and she bit her lip playfully. A blush rose in his cheeks and as she stood to walk towards him, there was a second arrival in the park. A man with salt-and-pepper hair strolled past the girl, in quite casual clothes for a red-carpet billionaire. "Mr. Stark?" said Steve, hoping to see the same face from the folder turn around.

His eyes were covered by tinted sunglasses, but Steve still recognised him. It was definitely Howard's son. Stark tilted his head first towards the girl, then to Steve. "Captain."

The girl's attention was now on Stark, the smile on her face once again. The corner of his mouth curled up the very slightest and then he paused, his lips turning down. "Sorry, sugarplum. This is a business meeting, can't play." The girl scowled and crossed the park to visit another unsuspecting young man. After a half-hearted handshake, Stark sat down across from Steve, mumbling to himself while rubbing his temples with his fingers. "I'm in a relationship, I'm in a relationship."

Steve thought that if he would have to remind himself that he was in a relationship, that it was not a very strong one. He took a glance at the billionaire's shirt, a dark cotton tee with the words _Black Sabbath_ written on it. He opened his mouth to ask what it meant, then decided that it was best if he minded his own business. To get Stark's attention he cleared his throat.

"Right, so inception." Stark snapped out of his trance, tossed his sunglasses onto the table and leaned forwards, looking at Steve with narrowed eyes that made him awfully uncomfortable. "You don't look like a ninety-four-year-old capsicle."

Steve did not quite know what to answer to that. His eyebrows furrowed together and his mouth hung open like an idiot. He had never been able to tell if he was being complimented or insulted, and Stark's face was not easy to read. "Um...thank you?"

The other man did not seem to hear him. Stark leaned around the tree and towards the couple eating the odd nest of meat and bread. "What's that?"

"It's shawarma," said the woman. "It's an Arabic dish—"

"Okay. I'll find some later." Stark returned to the table and Steve only stared. "Has Coulson asked you to sign his trading cards yet? He won't shut up about them, they're vintage."

"No."

"Well, you're talkative." He leaned back in his chair. "All right then, inception. I know what it is, I've heard enough about you from my dad and I'm already familiar with S.H.I.E.L.D. You can fill me in on the job back at HQ. What's left to talk about?"

Steve moistened his lips, unsure now if he really wanted Stark to be the architect, a core member of the team. After just over a minute of being in his presence, Steve already disliked the man. "How experienced are you in dream-sharing?"

"It's what I do, old man. Well, dream-sharing is more of a recent hobby, but I've gotten a lot of practice. I haven't tried inception yet, though. Do we know anyone who has?"

"Agent Barton is my partner. He's in Russia tracking down an acquaintance who succeeded."

"Good. I'll meet you on the Helicarrier when Coulson calls me. I assume you don't have a Blackberry." Stark fetched his sunglasses and put them back on.

"A...blackberry?" Steve must have heard him wrong.

"Exactly." That was when Tony Stark decided to stand, push in his chair and back away. "Until next time, Captain. Good talk."

Steve gawked at the departing man until he was well out of his sight, but far from out of his mind.


	3. Tails

Belated credit to -andrews and lettiebobettie on Tumblr, whose gifs and artworks inspired this fic.

Don't ship Clintasha? We aren't friends. Also you might want to skip this chapter, because it's rated M.

Also, if anyone wants to beta future chapters, that would be so very much appreciated.

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CHAPTER 2 - TAILS

"So what's Nat doing back in Volgograd?" Clint paced across the floor of the Quinjet, from the pilot's seat to the closed ramp at the back. He zipped up his purple vest, a little odd-looking in public, but mostly bulletproof. He had no intent of being shot that evening, though he could never be certain of his full safety when Natasha was involved. He had been taught that lesson several years ago, though he was not quite sure that he had learned it.

"Recon," said Coulson, sitting comfortably on one of the chairs in the back of the Quinjet. "It's a personal mission for the most part, but we're supervising it. You're lucky that we are—she would be impossible to find otherwise. Do you want me to pull her out of the job or will you wait?"

"I'll wait until she's done for tonight, and if the job isn't finished, I'll see what I can do to help." Natasha didn't like to be helped, but she certainly preferred it to leaving unfinished business behind. Besides, he was one of the few people she trusted. She would let him in.

xxxxxx

_Budapest, 2005_

"What the hell, Romanoff? I thought you had my back." Clint tried to storm past the door to their cabin buried deep in the woods, but his limp took away most of his desired bravado. The mission had been a trap. Benjamin Sinko, the mark, had known about the extraction that S.H.I.E.L.D. had ordered. Nonetheless, the two agents had successfully obtained the information they wanted. The problem had come when they woke up. They had fought their way past the guards inside the building well enough, escaping with a scrape or two. However, neither of them had predicted the chaos that had awaited them outside: trained snipers, government agents, child soldiers, bodyguards, the whole shebang. Clint and Romanoff had taken all of them out, while narrowly managing to stagger away. He hurt everywhere and desperately craved sleep that was not provoked by Somnacin.

"I did have your back," said Romanoff. She locked the door and hurried to pull all of the curtains closed. It was dark for a moment while he heard her scurry around and then a tiny flame was lit next to his bed, a thin cot on a flimsy bed frame. Romanoff held the match steadily until the wick glowed. "If I didn't, you would be dead."

"Well, thanks for nothing." Blood was in his right eye, his shoulder was hit and gravel and sand were stuck in various scrapes on his arms, knees and torso. He sat gingerly on the edge of his bed.

Romanoff stood in front of him, her face covered with dirt and her hair tangled. Her form-fitting costume was torn in various places and a buckle on her boot was broken. She watched him with an expression that he could not read. "Are you mad?"

"What? No, I'm just...tired, that's all."

"Then take off your clothes, we can't have you bleeding to death." Romanoff turned around, not to give him some privacy, but to kneel in front of the lower kitchen cabinets to retrieve the first aid kit. She also reached for her personal bag and Clint decided to concentrate on undressing. He pinched the buckle that released his quiver and placed it with his bow onto Romanoff's bed. His S.H.I.E.L.D. vest, unfortunately, was not nearly as bullet resistant as the Kevlar armour that he had been instructed to lay aside while it was remodelled. _Leave the purple with me_, his handler had said. _Budapest will be a milk run_, he had said. The next time he would see Coulson, he would show him just what his milk run had involved.

Clint was able to slip off the vest with little resistance, but the shirt underneath was impossible to peel off without straining his shoulder. He threw his shooting glove and armguard onto the pile of discarded equipment, allowing him to stretch his hands and wrists while Romanoff made herself comfortable in a rickety wooden chair that she dragged next to him. She unstrapped her gloves, adding them to the heap, and retrieved a pair of trauma shears from the first aid kit.

"Do you mind?" She gestured with the pointy end towards his shirt.

"No, go ahead." Clint was not partial to his clothing, a useful asset when most of the contents of his closet were stained or torn or just plain disposed of. He even held out the cotton hem for Romanoff to take as she cut the shirt straight up to the neck. While he shrugged off his right sleeve, she worked on peeling the other side from his left shoulder. Her face was hard in concentration and her fingers, calloused and bruised from gun-wielding and face-punching, were delicate when she removed the shirt from his wound.

He kept his eyes on her while she took the tweezers and a miniature flashlight, leaning closer towards his shoulder. She held the tips of the tweezers over the flame from the candle to sterilize them, then returned to his side and peered at the hole where the bullet was hidden. Her breath came soft and cool on his exposed skin, causing the hairs on his arm to raise erect into the air. As if to make things even more difficult for him, Romanoff glanced at the flashlight in her hand for a moment, frowning because it was in the way, and then put the cylindrical tool in between her teeth so that the light was pointed at Clint's shoulder. Her lips, split and dry and still fucking gorgeous, rested around the metal and her throat tightened when she swallowed around the flashlight.

Clint thanked whichever gods existed in the sky that he was shot, and therefore in enough discomfort to prevent a very awkward and sticky situation below his belt. Romanoff rested one hand on the top of his shoulder and reached into the bullet wound with the tweezers. Clint watched her work with bated breath, clenching his fist on his knee. He would have killed for some pain medication, or even better, whiskey.

Romanoff frowned up at him and took the flashlight out of her mouth. "Quit clenching your fist, you're bleeding all over the place. You don't have to watch, you know." She bit the torch again and returned to her work. He felt her get a hold on the bullet with the tweezers, her eyes lighting up as she did so, and he grimaced at the first tug. "Sorry."

"S'okay," he grunted through gritted teeth. He relaxed his hand, moving it back up to rest on his thigh. "And watching helps. The blood, I mean—watching the blood helps."

She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and pushed the flashlight to the corner of her mouth, as she would a cigar. "Helps what?"

He decided against answering, mostly in fear that he would stumble out of Budapest with a black eye if he confessed the truth. "Just take the goddamn bullet out, would you?"

Romanoff yanked out the little fucker with a single pull and he bit his tongue, drawing blood. This time she did not apologize. She dropped the bullet onto his ruined shirt and vest on the floor, resting the tweezers on the lid of the first aid kit. The flashlight left her mouth to be dropped back into the plastic box and she swapped it for a bottle of saline and antiseptic wipes. She had cleaned the wound in a matter of seconds, splashing the saline onto a cotton swab and wiping all of the blood away. "The entrance wound is small, so we can wait for someone else to stitch you up. It isn't my _forte_." She applied a gauze pad to his shoulder and taped it down. "Better?"

To be honest, it stung like a bitch and throbbed constantly until he thought his arm would fall off, but he would live. He nodded. Romanoff moved onto the smaller wounds, disinfecting and bandaging the cut above his eye, then cleaning the dirt from the scrapes on his torso and arms. Neither of them exchanged any words and he was about to thank her for doing what he could have managed by himself, then she stood to wash her hands. He threw out his good arm and gripped her elbow, stopping her in her tracks. "Is that your blood or mine?"

They both looked down at a red streak on the black of her uniform, across her left ribs. Romanoff shrugged and tugged her arm back. "I was busy watching your back. Then some kid came at me with a knife."

"Jesus, I didn't even notice. Here, lemme see." Without even thinking—this was the Black Widow for fuck's sake, the woman that he had been ordered to kill when she was barely out of her teenage years—he reached up for her zipper. The next thing he knew, she had his wrist in a twist that he could not free himself from. Pain jolted up his arm towards his shoulder and he fell onto his knees, a pearl of sweat dripping into his eye. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Romanoff...it's okay. Ow, shit. I'm sorry, it was a mistake."

Doubt snuck its way into her eyes and she released her grip on her pistol, which he hadn't even realised she had pulled out of its holster, and let his arm go. Clint stood cautiously, hands in the air in surrender, and moved to pick up the pile of trash that had come from repairing his wounds. He crossed the room to stuff the shirt, vest, bullet and bandages into the garbage bag near the door, just to have an excuse to walk away. Coulson and Fury had warned him about teaming up with Romanoff, that she could still be unstable and distrustful from her past in Russia and the things that she had been trained to do. Clint had accepted the challenge because he thought that this Romanoff character would keep him on his toes. He had not been wrong.

Clint turned around and she was facing him, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes averting his. "Look, I'm not forcing you to do anything. It's just that you patched me up, so I could at least hope to return the favour."

"I can do it myself."

"Same goes for me." Clint retrieved what was left of the first aid kit and sat back down on his bed. "But you offered to help and I let you. Now, either I'll owe you one, or we can just get it over with while we're still young."

Romanoff gave him that green stare for a moment, that one where he couldn't really tell what she was thinking, so the only choice he had was to wait for her to finish. Clint fished around inside the plastic box for the things that he would need to clean that cut and when he looked back up, Romanoff was pulling off her utility belt and gun holsters. She unzipped the top half of her costume and walked towards him. The spandex was peeled back to reveal pale skin, a black bra and a bleeding cut that was deeper than it had first appeared. "Stitches?"

"Stitches," said Clint. The kit had no needles or thread, but Romanoff conjured some from the magical depths of her bag and handed them to him. While he set out the saline, cotton swabs and bandages, she wriggled out of her skin-tight suit. Clint tried to look the other way while she undressed, finding great entertainment in the ball of cotton that was closest to him. Romanoff was a bomb ready to go off—if you made one wrong move, you were dead. Clint would not mind death, although he did not look forward to eventually meeting Coulson in the afterlife, who would tell him 'I told you so'.

The cotton swab had been torn to shreds by the time he realised that Romanoff was waiting. He dropped the fluffy bits of white, which did not land on the floor with a satisfying thump, but instead floated elegantly downwards. They seemed very proud of themselves. "Where do you want me?" she said, and he choked. Because this was exactly like one of his fantasies, with her standing in front of him in her underwear, both of them bruised and tired. Oh yes, he had dreamed about her. Just about everyone probably had, now that he thought of it. He frowned at the idea, repulsed. He wondered if she was aware. Knowing her she was, but alas, he did not really know her at all. Everything he could tell you about the Black Widow could be found in the files that S.H.I.E.L.D. possessed.

"Err, just make yourself comfortable," he said when his libido had settled somewhat. "I haven't stitched anyone up in years, so this could take a while."

"That isn't exactly comforting." Romanoff took a step forwards nonetheless, her standing knees bumping against his seated ones. She arched an eyebrow as if to ask 'is this all right?' and he nodded to say 'yep, that's fine'. Clint took a cotton swab, one that he had not torn to pieces and let float proudly towards the floor. Using the saline, he cleaned the dirt and dried blood from her wound and was utterly in awe of the way that she did not once flinch. Compared to her, he felt like a whiny child who miraculously found a way to cry about everything.

Clint was done and he recapped the saline and put the dirty cotton swab away. Romanoff's eyes had never left him, like a hawk watching its prey. The stare left him feeling exposed (and distraught that he had compared someone else to his own nickname) as he leaned backwards to hold the needle above the flame of the mostly-melted candle. Once he judged that it was sterilised, he sat back up. He held the steel wire at eye level and with practiced precision, eased the thread through the eye of the needle after one try. He took a deep breath. When he leaned forwards to begin the amateur surgery he was met with a certain level of discomfort, the bruises on his torso protesting at the awkward position, and he sat up straight again.

"What's wrong?"

He frowned, not like anyone could tell the difference between a scowl and his usual expression. "It's just that you're too far away for me to do this properly. And I think we would both prefer for me to do it properly."

"You're saying you want me to be closer."

"Yes, please. For medical and safety purposes only, I swear," Clint assured her, because no one told Romanoff what to do. A suggestion was fine, though often dismissed. He tried to be as unpersuasive as he could while speaking despite how much he would prefer for her to be nearer.

_Oh_. Maybe he was in a dream, he wondered, because Romanoff was climbing onto his lap in her underwear. He could not check his totem at that moment, but if he was asleep, this was perhaps a dream that he would enjoy. Remembering the needle in his hand, he squinted at the wound in front of him.

"We're going to need more light. Here." Clint handed her the flashlight that she had used earlier to pull the bullet from his shoulder. She did not put it in her mouth this time, unfortunately. Then again, she was sitting in his lap in her underwear. There was only so much that he could have. "It's too bad we don't have any painkillers."

"I used them all during my last extraction." Romanoff clicked on the flashlight and directed the beam downwards. She placed her other hand on his unhurt shoulder and shifted her legs, one on either side of him.

"What happened during your last extraction?" Clint began his work, making an effort to cause as little pain as possible. Blood slickened his fingers by the second stitch and there was no mistaking the strain in Romanoff's voice.

"It was a solo mission. Tying up loose ends from Russia."

"A solo extraction? Never a good idea."

"I don't trust anyone with those years, Barton, as you very well know." True, once he had dared to ask for more information about her than was in the files. She would not speak to him for a week afterwards. "Anyway, the mark had plenty of guards waiting for me when I landed at his mansion. Nearly lost my leg."

"And after?" Clint wiped the blood off his hands before resuming the stitching.

"After I recovered, I returned to the mansion and extracted the information from the mark's head, disguised as one of his mistresses." He knew that Romanoff's specialty was forging, despite being competent in each branch of the extraction business. She had nearly fooled him a few times. "During that week, I used up what was left of the morphine. Damn leg."

"Now you've got this to worry about." He tied the last stitch and snipped off the extra thread. After wiping the rest of the blood from the wound, he applied a gauze pad over it just as she had done for his shoulder. "There, it's done."

"Thank you, Clint." Romanoff replaced the flashlight in the first aid kit and touched the pad over her ribs experimentally. Clint's jaw dropped open while he was unaware and he clamped it shut. No one had called him that in years, let alone her. It was the one word that he thought would never escape those lips of hers. In fact, there were probably several that she would never say: currycomb, yowza, crapkin and quasihemdemisemiquaver, to name a few.

He did not know why, but the picture of Natasha Romanoff saying quasihemdemisemiquaver just couldn't come together in his mind.

"You okay?" she said. Her hand that had once held the flashlight moved onto his left shoulder, the one with the bullet wound. It was an odd sensation, feeling both sore from the fresh injury and short of breath from that heart-racing, hair-raising tickle of her skin against his. He could count the specks of blue in her olive irises and could memorise the patterns that the dirt had made on her cheeks. Clint pressed his lips together and cleared his throat.

"Perfect." The candle's flame flickered and the light moved across her face, half of it obscured by the shadow he cast. Her tightly curled hair, usually tame and flawless even in battle, had come loose from its ponytail. Scarlet strands stuck up in all directions and would have looked funny on everyone but Romanoff. She wore no makeup and still she was the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on, which was something coming from him.

The distance between them closed faster than he could blink. Her lips were dry against his and he tasted the tang of blood in her mouth. For the first time since he witnessed his mentor stealing money from the carnival, Clint froze. He was like a naive schoolboy and the girl next door had just kissed him. His suspicions raised faster than his libido, for the Black Widow always had an ulterior motive.

Then again, he was certain that Romanoff did not need to have sex to extract information. She was more skilled than that. She could sleep with who she wanted, when she wanted, and that was why he had never seen her with anyone. The idea that she truly wanted him sent his blood rushing from his head to his cock. She leaned forwards, pushing him backwards, and he felt Romanoff's breathing shift when he returned the kiss, sucking on her bottom lip. He savoured the salt of her sweat, a hint of vodka, and a raw flavour that was completely her. Her nails dragged down his bare chest towards the zipper of his pants and he reached up to tangle his fingers in her hair. Everything was perfect until Romanoff stopped, their lips pulling apart with a smack.

"Ground rules: no hair-pulling." Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were bright red, but he knew that she was serious. The day that he would see her joke would mark the beginning of the end of the world.

"Sorry, didn't know." He untangled his fingers from her hair and slid them downwards until he reached the clasp of her bra. "And don't bite me."

Romanoff frowned, her brow creasing. "I didn't bite you."

"I know. Just don't."

"Okay." She leaned back down and teased her tongue into his mouth, shrugging off her bra and pushing down his pants as she did so. _Good God, the woman can multitask_. He might just come before things could even get interesting. That thought was certainly at risk to become reality when she draped her leg over his. He could feel her heat and her wetness through her panties, which she unfortunately still wore. They seemed to both notice this at the same time, but their mouths did not part while they hurried to kick the underwear off their legs.

Clint sat up, pulling Romanoff back into his lap, this time without any stupid clothes in their way. She clasped her fingers together behind his neck and he rested one of his hands on her hip, the other lifting to cup her breast. The impending thrill of fucking the other agent rendered his panting hoarse. Her fingers stroked his jaw while she licked at his earlobe, nearly sending him off the edge. He took deep breaths of her perfume, still somehow fresh underneath the stink of sweat and dirt and their mingling aromas. "Fuck, Romanoff."

She gave a shuddering sigh and kissed him again, their tongues twisting together. His thumb circled her stiffened nipples as he grew hard in his impatience. He felt her smile against him and he cursed in his mind. If he swore at her too much, it could ruin his chances of walking out of there alive, let alone laid. And then finally, after what seemed like hours, she moved against his erection, sending a conflagration spiking through his every nerve. "By the way, I'm on the pill. Thanks for asking."

All that waiting and he had forgotten about protection. _Idiot. Well, no one's perf_—oh. She had slid down until he was completely inside her. Clint let out a low hiss, savouring the moment, letting his eyelids fall closed while he pressed his mouth to hers. He pushed up with his hips and a sound escaped her lips, not quite a moan, but not a whimper either. It was somewhere at that ideal pinnacle in between. Soon they were moving against each other, in perfect sync, his thrusts meeting hers. They breathed in ragged gasps and he climaxed just before she did, his heartbeats erratic and his cock still eager.

Clint flipped her onto her back, being careful not to strain the knife wound across her stomach, and gave his most winning grin as a request to continue. Romanoff huffed breathlessly, her skin shining in the fading light and her pupils blown. The corner of her mouth twitched in a smile and he took the quick nod of her chin that followed as permission. She stretched her neck upwards to meet his lips for yet another kiss, something that was not quite as frequent in his past sexual encounters. But Romanoff was different from the other girls, she was smarter, she was stronger, she was..."Natasha," he whispered against her lips after the candlewick burned out.

xxxxxx

_Volgograd, 2012_

The Quinjet landed atop the hotel building and Clint stepped out to greet the cool night air, slipping his bow over his shoulder to join his quiver. The city beyond thrummed with chatter and energy. He peered back up at the jet, where Coulson leaned out of the opening to the ramp. "You're sure Natasha's here?"

"No," said Coulson with a wry smile. "But this is where she's supposed to be in ten minutes. She should be on her way now."

"What room did you say she's staying in?"

"I didn't. She picks her rooms, not us. You'll have to get into the security control room. I'm sure you're capable, Barton."

"More than capable, sir. See you later." Clint raised his fingers to his temple in a mock salute and backed towards the door that gave the occupants access to the roof. The Quinjet clanged and whirred as it rose into the air, soaring away to an unknown destination. He withdrew a set of thin metal tools from his pocket and picked at the lock on the door until he heard that familiar click. He would have to act quickly—this was a simple hotel, but he could not raise suspicion. Clint closed the door behind him and ran down the staircase as swiftly and as silently as he could. The security control room would be on one of the lower floors.

He pushed open the door to the second floor hallway and was met with deep red carpeting, walls the colour of milk chocolate and lighting designed to be soft and relaxing. It was awfully fancy for Natasha, who would be comfortable sleeping on a forest floor. He then realised that the room was most likely offered by the client, and their clients had a tendency to have money falling out of their pants. After spending two seconds too long staring at the exquisite chandelier that hung above his head, he rushed to find the security control room. Luckily, he had met no one in the hallways apart from a small blond child who sat cross-legged in front of room 196. Clint continued to walk until he arrived in front of the room that he had been searching for.

The door was unlocked when he pushed it open. He had very little time to look around before a man charged at him, fists flying. Clint immediately blocked the punches that followed and delivered one of his own, straight to the other's nose. The man stumbled backwards and swore in Russian, attempting in vain to stop the blood flow. While the Russian reeled, Clint threw his arm around the other's neck and gripped him tight in a chokehold until he passed out.

As the Russian collapsed, Clint scanned the room, raising his bow. There was no other sign of life. He lowered the bow and knelt next to the unconscious man, who wore casual clothes, unlike the ones that a security guard would normally wear. That certainly made him suspicious. He tilted the man's head to the side in order to prevent him from choking on his own blood, then sat in front of the monitors that showed him the feeds from each security camera in the building. He watched the monitors with the most careful eyes, searching for that familiar red hair.

Minutes passed and he grew bored. Natasha had not appeared on the feeds. Clint gave a sigh and leaned back in the chair, stretching out his legs until he felt something that was not the wall. He moved his foot. Whatever it was, it was too soft to be any computer part. He kicked harder. Nothing kicked back. _Oh boy_.

He sucked in a deep breath through his teeth and placed his bow on the table, pushing the chair backwards until he could look at what he had felt. "Aw, shit." Naturally, a body. Clint moved the chair out of the way and crouched down, grabbing a handful of fabric and pulling until a large man with wispy white hair was out from under the table. He had a single bullet wound in his forehead. The cause of death was unfortunate, but nothing compared to the sight of what clothes the man wore. A hotel security uniform. The man he had knocked out was no security guard.

Clint nearly dove at the monitors, scanning each one for her. What if he had missed her? What if she was already in trouble? What was he saying? Of course she was fine. He just had to be sure.

He found her immediately after he found her tail. The man, tall and thin and black-haired, did not bother to conceal the gun he carried at his side. He even looked straight at the camera above his head and grinned eerily at what he thought was his companion: the Russian man who was still unconscious on the floor.

"I see you, asshole." Clint gave a rude gesture at the monitor, flipping off the man who was tailing Natasha. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was two corner turns away. Her walk was confident and guarded, in a way that he could not tell whether or not she knew about the tail. "C'mon Nat, you better be playing one of your games."

The tail in the first monitor took a glance behind him and Clint felt the precise moment where his heart sank to his stomach. In three different monitors, one behind the first tail, one around the next corner from Natasha and one on the staircase, three more men carrying guns walked in the same direction. They underestimated her. Not only that, but they had thought Natasha was working alone. He gave them credit for the latter, for it was true until about five minutes ago, but no one who underestimated Natasha lived to see the next sunrise.

Clint was perfectly aware that whether or not she knew about the tails and had a plan, she was more than capable of protecting herself. He gave a scoff and collected his bow, because he didn't give two shakes of a rat's ass. The carbon fibers of his weapon, crafted specifically for him, bent into a deep curve when he nocked and drew an arrow. It was no tranquilizer dart. This was sharp and he would not hesitate to kill. He was not even sure if Natasha was the one the men were after. He just had that feeling. She was prone to having people after her.

He kicked the door shut behind him and raced upstairs. A man with an ear piercing and no hair stood on the landing to the sixth floor, his gloved hand extended to open the door. Clint loosed an arrow into his throat, recognising him from the security footage. While the man gagged and died, the archer stepped over him and emerged onto the sixth floor. He turned to his right.

The first tail that he had spotted writhed on the floor, victim of Natasha's famous Widow's Bite. Another was being strangled between her thighs. _Not a bad way to go_, he thought. _Considering_. He also had to give her extra credit, because he could not imagine that it was easy to perform a lethal thigh-hold on a man while clothed in a pencil skirt and a blouse.

Natasha made a dive for the nearest pistol, not yet seeming to be aware of Clint's presence. He could not blame her, for another of the assailants slammed past him without noticing the archer's unconventional weapon. The fourth man took several strides before pausing to lift his gun at Natasha. He stood halfway between her and Clint, who loosed an arrow. The familiar blast of a pistol's fire detonated not a second later.

"Nat?" The only movement was the man collapsing due to the arrow protruding from his back. He could not see Natasha. And then he saw that as the other man hit the ground, he fell backwards, not the way that he was meant to, as Clint had attacked from behind. A bullet had pierced the other's skull.

Natasha tossed the pistol aside, put her shoes back on her feet and came to stand at his side. They stared at the twice-impaled body on the ground, silently admiring their work. "Hi, Clint."

"Hi, Tasha. Solo extraction, huh? Never a good idea."


End file.
